


Most of Them Are Dead

by ELISE_ELEVEN



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Episode 6, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Jaime Lannister Lives, Lord Varys Lives, POV Sansa Stark, Playing the Game, Politics, Power Couple, Sansa Stark is the Villain, Sansa has had a plan from the beginning, Scheming, The Iron Throne, Warg Bran Stark, alternate version of events, got season 8, not Daenerys friendly unfortunately, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ELISE_ELEVEN/pseuds/ELISE_ELEVEN
Summary: A pair, once wed, meets on a snowy wall.A request is made, a plea denied.A single word; a name.“Tyrion”A secret shared. A simple thing.





	1. Prologue

And so it begins, with a shift, with a pebble rolling lazily down the slope. A simple thing. A harmless thing. But the weight of enough pebbles can bring down a mountainside… 

A pair, once wed, meets on a snowy wall. 

A request is made, a plea denied. 

A single word; a name. 

“Tyrion”

A secret shared. A simple thing. 

A kiss exchanged in the shadows. 

Lips that have never met, touch at long last. 

Whispered words of treason behind closed doors. 

“Maybe we should have stayed married”

“Maybe it’s not too late”

Carefully. Carefully. 

A confidence broken. 

“Fly my little birds, fly”

And more carefully still. 

The line is drawn in the sand. 

How does an avalanche begin? From whence is treason born? Can love really be the death of duty?

The answer is more simple than you might think...


	2. Many Underestimated You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he could dream, he would have dreamt of a city on fire.

“You betrayed me.”

“Yes, I betrayed you. And you slaughtered a city.” 

If he could dream, he would have dreamt of a city on fire. 

When Tyrion was young, he heard stories of the dragons that lived during the Targaryen reign, great beasts taller than buildings and indestructible. He been told of their power, of their fiery breath, how it could melt iron and lay cities to the ground. He had been obsessed with them; desiring to see one, to ride one, so strongly that he wept at night and begged his uncle to bring him on for his nameday. Never, in his wildest dreams, could he have predicted that he would get to see a dragon in action, would witness such a display of its awesome power. 

Now, he hopes he will never see one again. 

The ground is hard beneath his small body. No matter which way he lays, though he tosses and turns, trying to find a good position, there doesn’t seem to be any way to get comfortable. Tyrion lies on his side on the hardpacked dirt floor of his cell beneath what remains of the Red Keep. The sun outside is warm. There’s a tiny, barred window in the wall above that casts a single beam down on the floor where he rests, curled in on himself, hands bound. The sunlight drives away the dark and dankness of the cells, at least for a little while, before the sun has moved on and no longer shines through. It’s the only thing that does. 

At first, sleep evaded him almost completely. The ground was too hard. The nights were too cold. And his mind was too full. He had spent a great deal of time thinking, and regretting, these past weeks- in truth he doesn’t know entirely how long it’s been. But, at last, he’s grown used to it. Through his joints ache, and his hipbone bites painfully into the rock-hard earth, he sleeps almost normally. More than he had in all the weeks leading up to the battle and subsequent slaughter of thousands. 

He’s been trying, trying too hard, to figure out what had happened, what had gone wrong. But there is no logical conclusion to be found. Because it wasn’t logical; it wasn’t sane. What she had done seemed to come out of nowhere-. Well, there had been signs. But he’d never imagined… this… 

Sansa had known. She’d predicted something like this would happen. He supposes he had indeed recognized some of the signs, because Sansa’s predictions didn’t seem all that improbable. But even Sansa, with her distrust and her watchful eyes, couldn’t have predicted just how bad it would be. 

Tyrion inches further into that square of sunlight. Closing his eyes, he relaxes his muscles and tries to quiet his mind. Better to sleep while its still warm, before the chill of night returns again…

CLANG!

Tyrion shudders. Another bang of metal on metal sends him jolting awake. Footsteps outside the door. A single eye opens just a crack, peering through the golden tips of his lashes and dark curls hanging down over his forehead. He blinks, mind foggy. 

What was that? Was someone coming? 

No matter. If they’ve finally decided to kill him; let them come. There are worse things than death. Living out the rest of his days in this grimy cell, for one. 

The door creeks open. He doesn’t bother sitting up. Someone enters the room. A pair of boots, black and made of thick, worn leather. And the dark skirt of a dress… His heart catches in his throat. And for a moment, one terrible moment, he thinks the Mother of Dragons herself has come to collect him. But no-. This is not the hem of one of Daenerys’ fine dresses; it’s a soft cotton material, handstitched together by practiced, talented fingers… His eyes travel up to find her face. 

“Sansa.”

Breath hitching in his chest, he sits up with a start, starring at her face in all its beautiful cleanness; hardly able to believe she’s real. “Sansa?”

“Tyrion…” She gasps. Her face is a tumult of emotions, swirling with all the things he too is feeling upon seeing her again. But her eyes are gentle and tinged with emotion; and her smile, just the tiniest of ones, is soft. 

Tyrion makes to get up, to go to her and she opens her mouth as if to speak, but then her eyes flit to the man standing in the doorway. Tyrion freezes. Uncertainly, he waits. The Dothraki guard watches them silently, his features blank and undiscernible. Slowly, Sansa turns her head and fixes her eyes on the man, a certain authority taking over her body language; until the guard finally turns and leaves, closing the door and locking it behind him. 

It is then that they she goes to him. They go to each other. She leans down as he clambers to his feet, and unwashed and stinky as he is, she wraps her arms around him and buries her face in the top of his head, inhaling deeply in a sigh of relief. 

When she stands back up to her full height, Tyrion can, at last, admire her. How can it be possible that she is even more beautiful now, even after traveling so far? Her hair hangs long, and red, and shining, about her shoulders, mingled with small braids. It’s astonishing to him, the way she’s looking at him, with joy and tenderness and- perhaps, perhaps- with longing. And her lips… He rights himself and quickly looks away. But the memory still lingers; the way those lips had met his own, once, and then once more; on the day he’d left for King’s Landing. On the day his world had been turned upside down. 

“I feared I wouldn’t make it in time.” She says, drawing back to have a look at him as well. He’s grubby and hairy, and utterly unrecognizable. And yet, she cannot take her eyes off him. They still have not let go of each other. Sansa is still claiming his hand, and he doesn’t try to pull away. 

“To honest, I am too. They haven’t told me anything. Do you know when my trial is supposed to be happening?” 

Sansa’s eyes drop. She swallows and then squeezes his hand. “I heard it might be tomorrow. I came directly here as soon as we arrived, so I haven’t spoken to Jon or my sister.”

“Did Arya send word after the battle had ended?” He asks, wondering how they’d known to come so quickly. 

“No. Bran saw was watching when the battle began. When he told me I knew… We left that very hour…”

Suddenly an urgency floods over him. “Sansa…” And when she raises her eyes to his, he pulls her closer. “You shouldn’t have come.” His voice is no louder than a breath. “It’s too dangerous for you here.” 

“I told you I would”, she says dismissively, but he shakes his head, feeling a sudden wave of fear rise up inside him. 

“That was before. We couldn’t have known it would be this bad. If she sees you, if she knows you’re here… She knows you oppose her. There’ll be nothing stopping her from ordering her men to imprison you too.” 

“I had to come. I couldn’t just let her take over. I couldn’t just hide out until she eventually comes marching North. We wouldn’t stand any more of a chance than King’s Landing did. I’m not afraid of her.”

“You don’t know! You haven’t seen her!”

“I’ve seen the city.” There is a harshness to her tone, a sharpness in the look she casts him. “I’ve seen what she’s done.” 

Tyrion has to force himself to speak calmly, ever as his heart is pounding in his ears. “Then you know; it’s too great a risk.” “She’s already going to kill me. Don’t let her get you too.” 

“Why do you think I came all this way?” 

Not for him? No! He cannot bare that! Enough people have died because of him. But he will let even more fall to protect her. “Sansa, you cannot risk your life for me! I won’t let you. I’m not worth it.” 

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

“You are!” And at that moment, she drops to her knees before him, so that they are on the same level, eye to eye; heart to heart. “You listen to me! What I told you on that wall was true. I cannot do this alone. I need you. We are the only ones who can do something, who can stop her. We had a plan, a good one, and we can still make it work. But I need you to trust me…” Her eyes are wide and deep, a simmering intensity behind the cool blue that has always captivated him. Not the way Daenerys’ or Cersei’s did, in fear and awe, but in a subtle, persistent power that was all her own. They refuse to let him go, refuse to let him look away, even for a moment. 

“Do you trust me?” 

He does not even need to consider for a second. His mind had long ago made itself up without him realizing or granting it permission. “You know that I do.”

“And I trust you.” They are very near now; her hands on his shoulders and his hanging in the air, just shy of her waist, hesitant to believe this is even real. They’re both breathing hard, and when she leans her forehead against his, he feels her heavy breaths against his skin. She’s starring at his lips. Her own hang open, her bottom lip trembling as she gasps. “I trust you; with everything I have, always.” 

And then she kisses him. 

The third time, if you don’t count that one on the back of her hand in the crypts. And Tyrion doesn’t; because in comparison to this, that was almost nothing at all. This… this is everything. Everything. And he could never want anything else but this, forever. 

It is over too soon. For this is neither the place nor the time to lose themselves completely to the moment, as he would be only too happy to do. Sansa pulls back just the slightest bit, resting her forehead on his, once again. Reluctantly, Tyrion lets her. And they breathe together, the taste of the other still on their parted lips. 

Finally, Sansa lifts her face away from his and searches his face. There’s a determination there. “So, for our next move…” 

“I’d really like to do some more of that, if its all the same to you.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in a devilish grin. An Imp to the last. 

Jerking back from him a bit, she snorts and then bursts out laughing; only to recover a moment later. She gazes at him, a good-natured smiling playing at her lips. Leaning in again, she bumps her forehead against his temple playfully and whispers, “As much as I’d like to…” She climbs to her feet and dusts the old straw and dirt from her skirts. “We have to make some revisions to the plan.” 

“Such as?” 

“Have you spoken to Jon?” Sansa turns away and paces over the small cot in the corner. And when she sits down, she’s seems to still be avoiding his gaze.  
“Yes. He’s been to see me twice since I was imprisoned. Neither time was very pleasant.”

“And?” She asks, fiddling with her gloves, taking her time removing them. 

Tyrion takes a moment to consider, remembering the haunted look in young Jon’s eyes; the desperate war that had been waging inside his mind, even after the real war had long since ended. 

“It’s a terrible thing I’m asking”, he’d said, “It’s also the right thing.”

He had left after that. And he has not returned since. 

“I don’t think it did much good.” Tyrion crosses to the wall opposite and slides down to sit upon the hard floor, his hands still bound in his lap. “Sansa, I don’t think he’ll be able to do it, no matter how much I try to reason with him. He loves her…” And at that moment, his eyes flicker up to Sansa’s, just as she looks at him. “He really loves her. And love turns even the most level-headed men into fools, can make them do things they never would have never dreamed possible.” 

Her eyes flicker away. Soaking in his words, she fixes her eyes on tiny window beyond, face somber and guarded. “I think he knows in his heart that it’s the right thing to do.” Tyrion continues, searching her face. “But I don’t think he has the strength to do what needs to be done.” 

Slowly, Sansa nods, her expression still unreadable. He can see the wheels turning inside her ever quick mind. In it, he sees a reflection of Littlefinger; in the moments as he stood by listening during meetings in the Small Counsel chamber, or when he caught him gazing at the Iron Throne sometimes during meetings in the throne room. And he is reminded, again, of those years she’d spent in Petyr Baelish’s tutelage, growing up with only his guidance. But blessedly, she had not turned out like him. Not even close.

“Perhaps you should speak to him again.” She wakes from her stupor and finds his eyes again. “And maybe I should also have Arya talk to him as well.”

“Shouldn’t you speak to him? You’re the one whose been advising him this whole time.” 

But Sansa only shakes her head dismissively. “No. He doesn’t listen to me. Never has. Oh, he thinks he does, but he never hears me, not really. He still thinks of me as a little girl, as his sister who he must protect. Still, he has not realized that I know what I’m doing. Both times I advised him not to go South; begged him even. But he didn’t listen, and now we’re here.” 

Tyrion can feel her cold fury and disappointment from across the room, can see it in the sharp line of her spine. It had hurt her, more than she’d let on, how Jon had refused to head her advice, and yet had bent the knee to Daenerys so easily. 

“But he listens to Arya.” Sansa continues, dropping her eyes. Carefully she smooths away the lines of emotion form her face and the pain from her voice. “She has always been his favorite. They’re so much alike. And you…” She grins a little as she surveys his small form hunched against the wall. “He’s always liked you for some reason. Even though you were the son of his enemies… and you married his little sister.”

Tyrion chuckles at that. “We spoke about that actually. When we met for the second time after so many long years, at Dragonstone. I jokingly asked if you had been missing me terribly. I…don’t think he got it. I had to try to explain myself. It got rather awkward.” Smirking, Sansa nods knowingly. “I get the feeling that, if your brother didn’t like me so much, I wouldn’t be still here today.” 

Your brother… But he’s not… is he? Even though she is the one who told him, he’s still never heard refer to him as her cousin. It must be strange a strange thing to adjust to. I must be a strange thing to realize your father had been keeping such a huge secret from all of them for so many years…

“And what about your brother?” 

It is Tyrion who looks away this time; ashamed. 

It had been difficult, more than he’d expected, to sit there and as Jaime pleaded to be set free, to go to Cersei; and not release him. But as much as Tyrion hated their sister, it was not hatred that had kept those ropes tightly secured around Jaime’s wrists. It was love. He loved his bother. And he knew what was coming. If he let him go, both Lannister twins would have been dead by the next sunset.

So, he waited until his brother had calmed down, and then told him about Sansa’s plan; told him that he could save him if he would only trust him. Jaime had refused to agree, refused to forgive. But that’s alright. He’s alive, and that’s what matters. Tyrion can worry about his brother’s wrath another day. 

He had gone to Daenerys and convinced him that Jaime had deserted and was trying to get to King’s Landing to kill his sister, not to save her. She had allowed him to bring his brother along as their prisoner, to be dealt with after the war was won. Jaime had protested; at least until he had nothing fight for anymore, when the Red Keep fell, taking their sister with it. 

“Is Arya ready?” Tyrion asks, finally meeting his once-wife’s eyes. 

Sansa stands and paces to the window, standing on the tips of her toes to try to see out. “I haven’t seen her yet.” She huffs and turns back to face him. “But she knows he needs to be gone before the trial starts. They’ll likely try you both at the same time.”

“And you think she can do it… will do it?”

“The tent where he’s being held is much less secure than yours and has only one guard. She’ll have no trouble whatsoever.” Sansa says matter-of-factly. 

But Tyrion isn’t quite convinced. “He may try to resist…” 

“She’ll have no trouble whatsoever.” She repeats, and with that, the subject is resolved. Changing the subject, she asks, “And what of Lord Varys? Did he make it safely away?”

Varys had the moment they arrived in the Capital. He’d had no trouble getting away, sneaking away in the middle of the night, with the help of his many connections in the city. He had met with Tyrion just before leaving, at the outskirts of the camp. 

“She will kill you, my friend, if- when she finds out what you’ve done. You should leave with me now. And it will be much easier to convince the people to stand behind the true heir if we have the testimony of the man who was a part of this entire thing from the beginning.” Varys had smirked, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “My little birds and I are up for the challenge, but it would help to have the world-famous Imp to help get people’s attention.” 

“Oh-ooh.” Tyrion had snickered. “Don’t forget, it was you who got me into this in the first place. I would have been content to drink myself to death in Volantis. But, since that is no longer an option, I’ll just have to finish what I started. I helped her get this far. I will have to take responsibility for the consequences of that.” 

“Farewell, old friend. By the time the war is won, Daenerys won’t have another ally left in all of the Seven Kingdoms. While you, and Lady Sansa, and the true heir will have more than enough support to do what must be done.” And with that, he had gone. A good thing too, for that was a big step in Sansa’s plans. 

Tyrion nods. “He did. She was too busy to notice until the city had fallen. That’s when she had me imprisoned. 

Drawing near, Sansa looms over him, blocking out the sunlight from the window, so that she’s just a shadow above him. Crouching down, she reaches out and her hand pauses just before the fingertips have touched, to hover over his cheek. “Good. And I’m sorry you’ve had to be in here all this time.” He can feel the heat of those fingertips, her hesitation as she searches his face. Then cautiously, they graze his skin and slide along to cup his jaw in the gentle palm of her hand, burying her fingers in his unruly beard and the curls at the nape of his neck. “Now”, she whispers, thumb stroking the scar down his cheek. “We’re going to go over the plan again, just to make sure. Then I’m going to go find my sister and Jon and find out just how bad things really are.” 

“You know, I’d much rather go back to kissing. Especially if I’m going to die tomorrow.”

She lets out a surprised snort of laughter, but then shoots him a sharp look. “You’re not going to die tomorrow.”

“Oh really? And how are you so certain?”

“Because”, she says, and there is only conviction and assurance in her eyes. “Because I’m not going to let you. I have a plan, Tyrion. And it is going to work.” 

…

When she exits the hole in the earth that leads down to the cells, tiny pale particles are blowing through the air, floating down to land on her cloak and the piles of rubble laying around the place that had once supported the grandest keep in Westeros. This place would be indistinguishable from the North if she didn’t know where she was. Except that this isn’t snow; its ash, the ash of a city and of the thousands who were killed, burnt alive, in just a matter of a few short hours. 

Turning, Sansa’s gaze sweeps the area, the camp where the Dragon Queen has set up her forces. There are soldiers milling about; Dothraki and Unsullied, but also Northmen too. This, more than anything, freezes her where she stands, turning her blood to ice. Because of Jon’s ignorance, her own people had been forced into taking part in this massacre- died even- for a cause they had no part in. 

Across the clearing, her eyes connect with Bran’s, where he sits with the group of men who had escorted them here. She had wanted to bring Brienne. She would have been all the protection they’d need. But someone needed to stay behind at Winterfell, someone that Sansa trusted.

They’re eyes lock across the open space. He had already been watching her; as he seemed to be doing a lot of lately. It was unnerving at best. But it was Bran who had brought them here, and she needed him too. His face is unreadable, expressionless, but he nods and Sansa responds in kind. 

Then she continues to survey the area. Surely Arya would have noticed when they arrived. Perhaps she’s just waiting until the coast is clear. Sansa needs to find her, and quickly; because, surely the Dragon Queen has also been made aware of their arrival. She needs to make sure things are prepared for her sister to free Jaime Lannister. 

Even after everything he’s done; attempting to go back for Cersei, and what he’d done to Brienne. Even though she couldn’t care less if he lived or died; in the end he is Tyrion’s brother, and she had promised to protect him. Tyrion would have never agreed otherwise, and she needs him more than anyone. 

Maybe Arya will also have a chance to speak to Jon before the trial. Tyrion had seemed to think that he could not be persuaded. But Jon is like their father- even if he wasn’t his true son at all. He would do anything to protect his family; like lying and saying Joffrey was the true king. Or betraying your queen. 

Sansa hadn’t gotten much information about the state of things from her talk with Tyrion. That’s alright. Arya would fill her in. And what really matters is that she and Tyrion are on the same page, and he’s still on board with the things that must come next. 

She is just about to cross the area, to join Bran on the other side, when a column of soldiers exits one of the half-collapsed archways of the Red Keep’s remains, and marches straight towards her. Holding her breath, Sansa avoids looking at them, hoping they won’t pay her any attention and march straight on by. But, just before they’ve reached her, the leader makes a sharp turn and begins pounding down the stairs that she’s just come up, the ones leading down to the cells below. She stares, open mouthed, as a few of the Unsullied soldiers go down into the hole and then return dragging Tyrion Lannister between them.

“Wait”, she cries lurching forward in shock. She extends a hand to stop them, even as they begin hauling him off towards the remains of the castle. Their commander, the leader of Daenerys’ forces- Grey Worm, she thinks his name is- glances over at her with a scowl on his face. 

“Where are you taking him?!” She demands. 

The man’s voice is flat and dark. “It is time for his trial.” 

“What?!” Inside, her head is ringing. Her heart is in her throat. Shaking her head in confusion, Sansa follows them a stuttering few steps. “No. The soldiers- they told me it wasn’t until tomorrow.” 

Grey Worm’s dark eyes bore into hers, unflinching as he pauses once more. “The Queen says it is today. So it is today.” And that’s it. Just like that they’re gone, marching in two perfect rows, back through the archway where they come from, dragging Tyrion’s small body between them. Just before they’ve entered the gaping hole, he glances over his shoulder and they lock eyes for just a second. But its enough; enough to know that he wants her to stay out of it, not get herself involved.

Squaring her shoulders, she glances over at Bran, who is still waiting silently in his chair. Then she jerks her head for him to follow, and heads in the direction where the soldiers had just disappeared. 

Skirts swirling up piles of ash, boots crunching in debris and crumbling remains, Sansa Stark raises her chin defiantly and follows them through the black mouth. He wanted her to stay safe, to keep out of it. But that’s not why she’s come all this way. Her plans have all just been thrown out the window; she’ll be going in blind. But it’s time to finally face the Dragon Queen. It’s time the Queen finds out exactly who she’s dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'd like to say that I don't think Sansa and Tyrion are actually villains. They're not. And honestly, I've always been on their side. But I do want to explore them in villainous type roles. I'm not saying they're even villains in this story necessarily. I'll let you decide that for yourselves when all is said and done. 
> 
> That being said, thanks so much for reading! I'd really appreciate your feedback because this fic came to me sort of out of the blue and I'd like to know if you guys are liking it. I'm in the middle of two other longer fics right now, so I really should have waited to start this. But I just couldn't wait! Please enjoy!


	3. You May Survive Us Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: MAJOR character death. This might bring back some painful memories.

During her time in King’s Landing, Sansa had never once visited the Dragonpit. She hadn’t been able to leave the Red Keep, even while she was married to Tyrion. And someone had to stay behind at Winterfell, so she was not there when Jon and Daenerys called a council with Cersei to ask for a temporary alliance in order to defeat the army of the dead. But even if she had been there before, Sansa would not be any more surprised at the state of the outdoor arena as she passes through the archway and out into the large, open space. 

One of the sides of the round structure has collapsed, and rubble cascades down the side and into the center circle, covering the everything in a thin layer of gravel; beneath the layers of ever-falling, pale ash. There are great, black scorch marks on the upper levels where the dragon dipped down low to circle round the Keep. But clearly, the Dragon Queen had wanted to keep this piece of architecture for herself; the only thing left standing in the entire city, besides a few crumbling towers of the Red Keep, because the center pavilion, a raised slab of stone at the center of the circle of sand at the center of the arena, is perfectly intact, without so much as a scratch. 

And there she stands; Daenerys Targaryen. Sliver hair, curled and gleaming, fluttering in the breeze, decorated with an intricate weave of more braids than Sansa has yet seen her with. No longer bothering to hide her true nature, she proudly displays her House colors. In the long black, scaled uniform and a deep red sash hanging from one shoulder. And in the banner; huge and unblazoned with the Targaryen sigil, that has been strung from the top of the tallest remaining tower of the Keep. She stands resolute, a power in the sharp lines of her figure, chin raised and eyes fixed on the smoky skies. And behind her, behind the platform, and nearly as tall as the arena walls themselves; her last remining child. The beast called Drogon. 

The rest of the open space has been filled with people. The crowd is made up mostly of the surviving Dothraki and Unsullied and Jon’s Northern forces. The rest are the surviving inhabitants, though there are very few, of the massacre of King’s Landing. As Sansa had ridden through what had once been the streets of the city, she had seen Daenerys’ men gathering them up, herding them like cattle up towards the castle. And now, here they stand. Many-most are wounded. Though it has been more than a week, many still wear the same clothes as they did on the day they watched their city burn. When Sansa looks at their faces, she expects to see anger or disgust. But there is only fear in the eyes of the people as the stare up at their new queen. 

Bran, Sansa, and their small company of men, skirt along the edge of the crowd and find a place to stand, off to the side. There doesn’t seem to be any point to drawing too much attention to themselves, at least as long as they can help it. But Sansa suspects they’re already being observed. Because, as they walk by, she swears she can feel the silver-haired Queen’s stare upon her back. But when Sansa turns to face the podium, Daenerys’ eyes are fixed on sky once more. 

The taste of him on her lips, Sansa watches as the Unsullied soldiers lead Tyrion through the crowd, parting the sea of people with the points of their spears, to stand just below the podium with the rest of the Targaryen forces. Daenerys does not look down at him, but even from here, Sansa can see the lines of displeasure deepen in the Dragon Queen’s face. Whatever in about to happen; it is not going to be good. 

Then, someone else climbs the steps and joins Daenerys on the platform; someone Sansa almost doesn’t recognize from his haggard expression and new clothes. Jon. No, not Jon- Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. And finally, he looks the part. Dark leather garments, angular and structured, embossed with a pattern of scales. Long red cape flapping in the breeze behind him. Hair pulled back and tight, bound and braided. Black, leather gloves clasp the only thing he’s retained from the part of him that is a Stark; his sword, Longclaw. 

His eyes immediately find Sansa and Bran in the sea of upturned faces, but then flick away just as quickly. Sansa feels a cold, angry knot twisting in her gut. She glances at Bran, but he only stares back with empty eyes, completely and totally unbothered. 

The board is set. The players are here. It is time for the game to begin. But…no. Not all the players are here. Where is Arya? Surely, she would have heard the commotion and come. Sansa scans the area; the towering stone walls, the double-wide archway, the pile of rubble, the-. And there she is. Just behind the nearest stack of bricks and stone. She and Sansa lock eyes. Then, Sansa cocks an eyebrow. A question. Arya nods. And nearly sighing with relief, Sansa turns her attention back on the podium, thanking the gods in her head. At least they won’t have to worry about Jaime Lannister causing any additional problems. 

Hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared, Daenerys Targaryen steps up to the edge of the platform. Her boots click loudly and echo in the growing silence, as conversation dies inside the crowd. Her eyes, pale and gleaming, scan the hundreds of faces, taking in each one. Then, she smiles. 

“My People.” Her voice is like that of fire itself. Warm. Deep. All-powerful. Fearless. “Since the day my House was slaughtered and our seat of power was stolen out from under us, I have only ever wanted one thing; to return home. But not just that. I have strived for many long years for one purpose; to break the Wheel. The Wheel of these Great Houses that pretended to care for you, who used you for their own goals, to fight and cheat their way to the top; only to fall once more as another took their place. But that it over. I have not only broken the wheel. I have crushed it ashes beneath my feet.” 

A cheer rises from her own men, but the Mother of Dragons raises a hand to silence them. “I have lost much and many on my way here.” At that, she glances down, a little sadly, at her commander, Grey Worm. “But I’m here now. I’m home. And I promise to you, my people, that I will never let that Wheel be built up again.”

“But…”, Daenerys clasps her hands in front of her, pacing along the length of the podium, before looking back up at the throng. “Before I can do that, I must wipe out every last trace of what remains of that festering system that oppressed you for so long.” The Dragon Queen’s eyes fall to the first row before the platform. “Tyrion Lannister, I call you to stand trial.” 

Before he even has time to react, the soldiers are yanking him by both arms, and basically drag him around to the side and up the steps. Daenerys takes a few steps back, as her men deposit the small man before her. Bound in chains, hand a foot, Tyrion gazes up into, the face of not only the Mother of Dragons, but her son as well. For a moment, all is silence. It would be peaceful, the ash drifting lazily down, and the sky an ashen grey, if not for the murder in the Queen’s eyes. The once advisor and the advised starring at one another, face to face, no pretense or lies between them, at last. 

The Targaryen takes another step back. She tears her molten gaze from Tyrion’s face and begins to pace, hands still clasped. “You know this man as Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. The Tyrant Cersei’s brother, and Tywin Lannister’s son. I once knew him as a friend, and more importantly; as Hand of the Queen, my closest advisor.” She pauses to glare down at him, hurt and anger mingling in her expression. “But now, I see only a traitor.”

“This man has been at the head of a plot to put an end to my reign before it has even begun. He conspired with such traitors as Lord Varys, who even now, travels throughout the kingdoms spreading lies and dissension. Not only did he divulge sensitive information to this man but helped him escape and charged him with the task of turning people against me.” She continues to take long strides up along the length of the dais, and the people watch every step. Behind her, Jon and Grey Worm stand unmoving in the ashfall. 

“Even before this”, Daenerys continues, “he was secretly working to protect his estranged family. On multiple occasions, he defended Cersei, his sister, using her love for her children as an excuse to try to reason with her. Except she could not be reasoned with”, her pale eyes turn on her only son, and linger as a flicker of pain passes behind them, “and I paid dearly for trying.” 

Taking a deep breath, the Mother of Dragons composes herself. Then she turns to one of her men and nods. As he goes running off towards one of the exit archways, she continues, planting herself in the space between Tyrion and Drogon, once again. “Tyrion Lannister has always had a soft spot in his heart for his brother, The Kingslayer, even though he knew all the things that he was. When Jaime Lannister first came to me at Winterfell and asked to join our cause, I was wary of trusting him and intended to have him imprisoned. But Tyrion and his other allies convinced me to allow him to fight with us.” Sansa has been carefully watching the back of Tyrion’s head, but now, she glances toward the place where the soldier had exited. She has a bad feeling she knows exactly where he was headed. Trying no to attract attention, she meets Arya’s eyes from across the clearing, but the younger girl gives no response. 

“Later, when my men caught Jaime trying to desert and return to save Cersei, Tyrion again pleaded for him, claiming he had a secret mission to kill the tyrant himself. And again, I was convinced by his persuasive tongue, to keep the Kingslayer as a prisoner and decide what to do with him after I took this city.” Daenerys’ simmering eyes fall from the people, to Tyrion’s upturned face. “I realize now, I should have killed him in that same moment. But now I’ve taken the city and it’s time justice, once and for all, be served on House Lannister.” 

Tyrion’s shoulders tense. He shifts a little in his chains, but Daenerys turns away and looks expectantly towards the archway where her soldier had left through. A moment later, the same Unsullied soldier comes jogging through the opening, alone and empty handed, all expression hidden behind his thick helm. 

Sansa can see the Dragon Queen’s fists clench as the man hurries up the steps and bends to whisper in the Queen’s ear. The silver-haired Targaryen goes very still. She nods once to the soldier, dismissing him, then takes a moment; her rapidly rising and falling chest the only thing betraying the anger building inside her. Then, carefully, slowly she rounds on Tyrion, and locks him in her sights. For one, awful tension-filled moment, Sansa thinks Daenerys is going to give the order and kill him right there. But she only takes a deep breath and raises her voice to the throng. “And now, he has let his brother go free.”

“Tyrion Lannister.” She speaks to him as if she doesn’t even know him. And by now, she’s probably wishing she never had. “You have heard your charges. You have helped two known traitors to escape. You protected Cersei, even after all she’s done. And, you have been planning to betray and overthrow me even before we arrived in Westeros.” Tyrion opens his mouth to speak, but Daenerys snaps; “Do you deny these charges?” 

Heart in her throat and fingers woven tightly together, Sansa watches as Tyrion stares up at the woman he once called queen. But he does not respond. He just stares at her. “This is your only chance. Speak.” The Targaryen Queen says through gritted teeth, finally letting some of her anger show through. 

“I do not deny them.” He says it loudly, clearly, unashamed. “All except one.” And Sansa notices Jon shift uncomfortably under Tyrion’s gaze. “I did protect and free my brother. I did warn Varys to escape. I tried to protect this city show Cersei some mercy, even though she doesn’t deserve any.” His gaze turns from Jon, back to Daenerys. “But I was never planning to overthrow you. And before we came here, I would have never dreamed of betraying you. I was always faithful- even to a fault- to you and believed in you; until you gave me no other alternative.” 

At that, the Dragon Queen eyebrows lift. She seems genuinely surprised for the first time since Sansa had first laid eyes on her. She glares down at him, disgusted, disbelieving, disappointed; then abruptly releases a few short gasps of laughter. “Really? This is the thing you choose to lie about? Even now, you would look me in the face and claim you did not intend to betray me?” 

Tyrion tilts his head, and Sansa feels the same confusion he does. As far as she knows, he is telling the truth. But the Queen just shakes her head. Glancing away, as if she can’t bare to look at him any longer, Daenerys clears her throat. “Before we crossed the Narrow Sea, when you first came to advise me, you warned me of many things from your life before. You told me all about your relationship with your brother. You told me how much Cersei wanted you dead and would do anything to get to you. You explained, in great detail, how you murdered both your lover and your father. You warned me about all the whores you’ve bedded, your overwhelming need for wine and strong substances, your tendencies and your downfalls, all the enemies you’ve made.” 

Sansa suddenly feels very uncomfortable. These are things he’d shared with the Targaryen Queen in confidence, things he hasn’t been able to tell Sansa about yet. But so blatantly stated, in the cold light of day; they sound painful and even damning. She sees Tyrion finch a little at the way she describes the instances of everything that happened on the night Tywin Lannister was killed, but he doesn’t look away. 

“And even before Jon Snow arrived at Dragon Stone, you warned me of what to expect from him and that you knew him. You explained in detail about his past and all about the history of his family.” Jon’s stately position wavers and he shifts slightly when he hears his name. Its clear he wants to be left entirely out of this, and his Queen and Lover mentioning him so offhandedly makes him uncomfortable. When he rights his gaze again, Sansa tries to catch his eye, but be avoids her.  


Daenerys comes to a halt before Tyrion. She looks him up and down, and this time she does not attempt to hide the disgust tinting her features. “But there is one thing, possibly the most important thing, you failed to warn me about.” Shaking his head, Tyrion begins to protest, to say he has no idea what she’s talking about, but the Mother of Dragons silences him with the rise of her hand. “You did not warn me about your relationship with Sansa Stark.” 

Silence. Sansa feels as though a someone has removed all her clothes and carried her to the middle of a towns square and dropped into the snow in front of a crowd of people. There is a shift. People in the throng surrounding the dais, people who know who she is, turn to stare at her. Daenerys’ men are all looking at her. The Dragon Queen is looking at her. And finally, even Jon turns his gaze on her. Exposed and uncertain, Sansa doesn’t respond. Instead, she raises her chin and meets Daenerys’ stare head on.

Tyrion is flabbergasted. “My relationship… We had no relationship of any kind at that time.”

“You are going to deny that you were married?”

“No.” He is shaking his head now, suddenly visibly startled at this turn of events. “Our marriage was common knowledge. We were wed in the Sept of Baelor before all the royalty and members of the court. The King’s Imp Uncle and Ned Stark’s daughter. The news must have spread across all Seven Kingdoms and beyond. I never attempted to keep that information a secret from you.” 

“But you didn’t’ warn me either.” Daenerys glares down her nose at him. “We were going to Winterfell, into the home of the Lady that was once your wife, and you didn’t tell me about it. You attempted to keep it from me, because you knew your feelings for Lady Stark would interfere with your duties to me.” Her eyes meet Sansa’s again. 

“Even when we reached Winterfell and you realized that Sansa opposed me, you still failed to tell me the truth of your relationship and what affect it was having on you. Even then, I would have been merciful and allowed you to step down and remove yourself from my counsel entirely. But you deliberately hid it from me.” 

Holding out his hands in earnest, Tyrion mouth falls open. He glances around at the Targaryen’s men, at Jon. “You don’t understand. It was a sham marriage. Neither of us wanted it. And we only wed a short time before we were both forced to flee for our lives. There was nothing to tell.”

“So, you deny you have feelings for her?” 

“I-.” He swallows, composes himself. Its completely silent as the entire audience holds their breath. “Anything that may or may not have been between us was irrelevant. It did not hinder my ability to serve you to the best of my abilities, which I did, until you burnt an entire city to the ground.”

“Oh, it didn’t, did it?” Daenerys spits. “So, while our people were dying by the hundreds, fighting the army of the dead above your heads, you did not suggest that perhaps you and Sansa should have stayed married? ‘It wouldn’t have worked between us. The dragon Queen. Your divided loyalties would become a problem.’”  


Sansa’s heart falls, like a stone, into her stomach. Those were the exact words she’d said to Tyrion that night, when she’d first allowed herself to entertain the idea of a life with him could be like; and then when she’d also had to face the idea what life would be like without him. 

Opening his mouth, stuttering, Tyrion is scrambling for something to say, but the Dragon Queen has had enough. “Don’t insult Missandei’s memory by trying to deny it! She told me everything. Right before your sister murdered her before my eyes!” At that, Tyrion does have the shame to lower his head. But Daenerys isn’t finished. “You knew that your loyalties were divided. You knew she was against me, and in your heart, knew that if the woman you love asked you to betray your Queen, you would have. Duty wins out against duty and honor every time.”

The woman you love…

“Daenerys.” Tyrion is visibly shaken now. Everything is spiraling out of their control faster than even Sansa had anticipated. The Queen of Dragons was never supposed to mention Sansa or her family. This was meant to be Tyrion’s trial, and his alone; but Sansa is beginning to suspect it is much more. 

Even with chains binding his feet, Tyrion shuffles closer to Daenerys. “Sansa wasn’t against you. The very first thing she said was that Winterfell was yours. Even if I had conflicted feelings, I had no reason to think she was working against you.” 

Slowly, Daenerys turns towards him. She fixes him with her gaze, and there’s something there, some understanding or… satisfaction. Sansa’s heart begins to pound inside her chest.

“So, Lady Sansa never spoke against me, never suggested I might not be the true heir to the Iron Throne?” Heads rise; Sansa’s, Tyrion’s, and Jon’s. Then Jon’s eyes flit to Sansa. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment. 

“No.” Tyrion fights to keep his voice steady. 

The smallest of satisfied smiles. The ash rains down, and the wind blows soft, and the Queen of Dragons smiles. “Then that makes everything very simple, doesn’t it?” Before Sansa knows what’s happening, Daenerys’ eyes are searching her out in the crowd. “Sansa Stark, I call you to come stand before your Queen.” 

She should panic. Sansa feels her shaking fingers curl into fists of their own accord. With every rise and fall of her chest, her heart only beats louder and more quickly in her ears. Breathing through her nose, Sansa scans the crowd of faces, all starring at her; at Jon and Arya. She should panic. But she doesn’t.

Slowly, she turns to face Bran, who sits in his chair beside her. They share a meaningful look, and he gives the slightest of nods. Then, with grace and dignity, chin held high, she moves down the path that has suddenly cleared in the middle of the sea of people. Her vision sharpens. And the all the rest of the world disappears; its just Sansa and the Dragon Queen now, starring each other down as Sansa makes her way to the platform. She takes her time climbing the stairs. The only sound in that vast, empty space of that auditorium is the sound of Sansa’s boots thudding on the stone.

As she passes, Sansa makes a point of looking Jon- Aegon directly in the eye. Her look says all the things she was too kind, to reserved to say before. You are the reason we are here, Jon. If you had listened to me, we would not have allied and trapped ourselves in service of a murderous dictator. She knows its not all his fault, that there were other aspects to contend with, that he did what he thought was right. But she can see it in his eyes; he knows he should have listened to her. 

Back in Winterfell, when Daenerys had taken her aside and tried to reconcile with Sansa, she had smiled warmly and place a hand upon her own. Sansa is not met with such a welcome reception this time, only a thinly veiled heat blazing behind her eyes. 

Coming to a stop beside Tyrion, Sansa looks down at him. She can see the terror and disappointment clearly on his face. Hadn’t he warned her, to get out of there before the Dragon Queen arrested her too? He had wanted so badly to protect her, but she had walked straight into danger. He had wanted to face this alone, but she was not about to let him go so easily. Plan or no plan; they are in this together. 

She dare not smile at him, not with the Mother of Dragons watching them so closely. But she tries to console him with an earnest look, as they lock eyes for a long moment.

Then the Dragon Queen clears her throat. There is a moment of silence as the two look each other over, size one another up. Sansa, as always, is struck by the strange beauty of this woman who has fire in her veins and can withstand direct flame, but looks as though she could be carved from snow. Daenerys’ face doesn’t betray her thoughts, and whatever she truly thinks of Sansa, is not something she decides to share. 

“Bend the knee.”

Silence. Tensions build, and all the people, even the earth itself, seem to be holding their breaths. But Sansa isn’t bothered. She had expected this. Calmly she stands before the Dragon Queen, her dark shirts billowing in the wind. 

Pink begins to bleed through the white of Daenerys’ skin, a muscle twitching in her cheek. Locking her jaw, and speaking very slowly, very deliberately through her teeth, she tries again. “Tyrion says you’re do not appose me. So, I compel you; bend the knee.” 

Sansa can feel Daenerys’ anger growing. She can feel the gazes of the two men she cares for most in this world burning into her, can feel see Tyrion’s fists clenching in desperation. But she had known from the first moment she saw this Targaryen invader that she would never bow to her. Sansa isn’t like her father, never had been; all dignity and pride and morality. She was raised by lions and molded by Littlefinger. Deception and manipulation a second language to her. But even if her life depends on it, there are some things no one can yield to. It is something stronger than all of those, that keeps her on her feet. 

“I see…” And there’s an understanding in Daenerys Targaryen’s face as she turns away. Her gaze falls on Tyrion, now resigned, if not slightly weary. “And what about you? Will you bend the knee and plead for your life?”

Her only response is a long cold stare, the same one he’d given her on the day he threw his Hand’s Pin into the dirt. Sansa feels her heart squeeze a bit upon seeing that defiant expression; with fear for him or with pride, she doesn’t know. Perhaps both. 

The Queen of Dragons lets out a long sigh. Returning to her place before them, between the dragon and Tyrion and Sansa, she lifts her face to the dying light in the sky and the falling ash. “Then I, Daenerys Targaryen, First of my Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die for treason against the Crown.”

Taking a step back, she nods at her guards, who hurry forward and bind Sansa’s hands. But Sansa isn’t looking at them; she’s looking at Jon. Desperation is written painfully into his face, everything he stands for suddenly waring inside his head, in the ugly the reality of this moment. His sister and cousin, or his Queen and lover… But though his hands clamp into fists and his Adams apple bobs, he doesn’t make a move. 

So, honor and the sanctity of a vow wins after all. Sansa isn’t really surprised. When the two soldiers force Sansa and Tyrion to their knees before the Queen, she turns her face away from the sight of him, heart breaking. 

She catches sight of Arya as she falls to her knees at the edge of the dais, with bruising force upon the stone. Their gazes lock, but neither makes a move towards the other; they share only a look. 

And so, it all comes down to this. Her whole life, all her trials and failures and very few victories, all leading here, to this moment. The stone is cold beneath her, gritty with sand and chunks of rubble that cut into the dry skin of her knees, even through her thick dark skirts. Kneeling there, a thousand people at her back and the eyes of the dragon fixed on her from above, it all begins to settle in on her like chill that increases so gradually that you don’t realize how dangerous its become until your already freezing to death. If this is the moment, she must face it, even though she be alone. 

But she’s not alone. He is here.  


Taking a shaky breath, Sansa reaches out, straining against her chains, and takes Tyrion’s cold hand in her own. He meets her eyes then. His are a dark green and blue-gray, staring back steadily from that rugged, handsome face, scar creasing when he forces the widest grin he can muster. She’s always liked his eyes…  


Weeks ago, when the army of the dead was ravaging through the Crypts, she and Tyrion and been in this very place; hundreds of miles away but in the same position; looking death in the face. Except this time, it is Sansa who grips his hand close to her in desperation. His thick knuckles are curled white and stained with ash, but Sansa clutches them as tightly as she can. Back in the Crypts she had thought she was going to die, had accepted it, and that if the god of death were to come for her, it should be there with Tyrion, looking him in the eyes and holding his hand. Now, though nothing is the same and the world is crumbling around them, she feels no different. 

Starring down at their joined hands, she wishes their bindings weren’t quite so tight. She would like to draw his hand to her lips and press a warm kiss to his skin, just as he had on that night; to show him in some small way, how grateful she’s not, and never has been alone in this. If they weren’t surrounded by all these people, she would do much more. 

“Sansa”, he breathes, his voice finally betraying some of the fear rising within them both, his pupils only tiny pinpricks in the sea of colors in his churning eyes.  


“Shhhh.” She replies, and tugs his hand closer, so that the metal bites painfully into her wrists. For a brief moment, she imagines they are the only two here, that she’s cradling and caressing his cheek in her hand. He would catch her slender wrist and press his lips to the tender skin of her palm, just between her thumb and fingers. But they aren’t the only ones here. And she can’t even reach his face to close her eyes and lean her forehead against his. 

Breathing deeply, despite her pounding heart, Sansa turns her eyes on the grey sky. A winter sky; she thinks. She could almost pretend she is safe at home. This wouldn’t be such a bad place to die, if she were to die today…

…

Brandon Stark sits at the edge of the crowd. He supposes he should feel something, anything at all, as he watches the Targaryen’s men take hold of his sister and force her roughly to her knees. But his steady brown eyes follow their movements without even a hint of interest. 

In all honesty, he had long since stopped expecting to feel the things that normal people felt. It is all so much bigger than any one of them- even his family- a huge plain before and behind filled with all the things that are to come, and that have already happened; going on forever and ever before his eyes. When he first began to feel The Raven taking over, he had found some humor that soon his heart would have just as much feeling as his poor crippled legs. Irony; it’s fascinating, almost… beautiful. 

Hands clasped in his lap, Bran watches the lines of soldiers that had been standing before the podium, step back, clearing the area that will soon be scorched with the hottest fire known to man. Dragons. He finds them fascinating as well. He’s visited some of them from the old days, in his visions. Seeing their majesty and terrible power had made him wonder; why would the gods create such monstrous beasts, stronger than all the others? Did they really not know what these monsters would be capable of? Or, do even the gods- much like men, yearn to watch the world burn? 

The Dragon Queen steps back, away from the pair kneeling at the edge of the dais. Coming to rest beneath the great neck of her last child, she is cloaked in its shadow. Tenderly, she reaches over to press a hand to the course scales of the dragon’s chest. She smiles as the beast leans in until its head hovers directly above the two prisoners. Sansa and Tyrion hold tightly to one another. Bran can see them braced for the impact that is sure to come, to bring a speedy end to everything they know. 

At that moment, Bran recalls the time he’d stepped into the mind of a bear. He could feel the heaviness of its body around him, as if he had suddenly taken the bear’s skin and had to adjust to its added bulk. 

A moment before the Dragon Queen’s mouth opens, Bran’s eyes roll back in his head. In the quiet of the moment, in that stillness just before utter chaos and calamity, the boy’s lips move, forming a single word: “Dracarys.” 

…

Everyone’s gazes had been focused on Daenerys; on the sentence she was about to rain down on the two prisoners. But Sansa’s hadn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the eyes of the dragon. She had seen the change, watched in amazement as they rolled back, the black and gold replaced by gleaming white. Then, in the next moment, she was yanking Tyrion by the arm and diving towards the side of the dais. And that was the moment all hell broke loose. 

Gasping and shaking, Sansa crouches low to the hard stone, struggling in her bonds as she tries to haul Tyrion over the edge of the platform and to safety. The world has turned to fire around them. Screams and cries mix with the Dragon’s guttural groan, before he releases another fiery blast, moving its head side to side, mowing down all of the Targaryen’s forces, who had been standing before the platform; and are now burning. 

When she glances back at Tyrion, she sees a look of pure terror and confusion. “What’s happening?!” He yells, scrambling after her, even though he’s chained from hand to foot. But there’s no time to answer. The heat is overwhelming, scorching the hairs at the back of her neck and making her eyes water. Even with their head start, they still aren’t anywhere near safe. 

Finally, though the haze of smoke, they reach the edge, and Sansa falls headfirst into the sand on the other side. Reaching up, she uses her bound hands to guide Tyrion down and try to break some of his fall. Then, they scurry along behind cover of the raised edge, and to the furthest corner, behind the line of fire.  


“No. It can’t be…” That is all Daenerys can say, standing there, starring with open mouth and horror in her veins. She just stares up at him, her child, incomprehension turning her body to stone; still, somehow, unafraid amid the stomping and thrashing of the huge beast. “Drogon…” It comes out in a strangled cry. She raises and hand towards him. She still doesn’t understand. Backing away slowly toward the shielded corner of the dais, Daenerys doesn’t hear the assassin until she’s landed on the smooth stone. 

Arya Stark, garbed in dark greys and browns, wearing a thick, fur-trimmed cloak round her shoulders, hair flying in the wind and teeth bared in a snarl, lands on the balls of her feet. Curling in on herself, she absorbs the shock of the impact of her jump, one very similar to the one that had ended the Night King. Then, she rises in one fluid motion, unsheathing the dagger from her belt and fixing her eyes on the back of the Dragon Queen’s sliver head. 

She doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. The world is made of chaos; and she is just another piece in this hellish puzzle. Growling, Arya races forward, her boots smacking loudly against the smooth stone of the dais. Daenerys still hasn’t noticed her yet, but she’s about to. When she’s only steps away, the Mother of Dragons whips around and sees the younger girl barring down on her. Those pale eyes widen with fear. She starts back, flinches, waiting for impact. But just before Arya reaches her, someone, tall and broad and dressed in dark leather, steps deliberately between Arya and her kill. Jon…

Arya freezes, dagger poised. Breaths; shallow and quick. They stare at each other. His breath. Hers. The world goes quiet, and the destruction becomes a distant blur. Everything narrows down to this moment. 

Jon starring down at Arya, his face contorted in pain. His eyes go to the dagger raised in her right hand. There is betrayal in them when they return to her face. With his arm protectively around Daenerys behind him, he faces down his little sister, an assassin and a murderer, without fear. He knows she won’t ever hurt him. And slowly, to his relief, her hand falls to her side. 

But a moment later, she is drawing her sword and whirling around to face an Unsullied warrior emerging from the smoke. “Get her to safety!” Grey Worm yells to Jon, his eyes never leaving Arya’s face. They observe each other, swords in hand, and then begin to move in a controlled circle, preparing for the fight. 

Jon doesn’t wait around to watch. Wrapping an arm about Daenerys’ tense frame, he guides her quickly to the edge of the dais and down the stairs. Everything is madness. The people of King’s Landing had started running the moment the dragon had attacked. With a roar, they’re flooding the archways, trampling over one another in an attempt to escape. There are soldiers too. Half burnt, still burning; they run by. Some fall to the ground and roll in the sand to extinguish the flames. Others stand there, incased in pillars of fire, vaguely swatting at the flames, as if uncertain what to do.

Jon heads for one of the smaller archways, inlaid in the rock, that goes into a chamber set into the stone wall. They can find shelter there until its safe enough to run. But before they’ve gone more than a few steps, Daenerys is pulling back, yanking him to a stop. He turns to see she’s starring back at the nightmarish scene, at Drogon burning them all. Feeling his heart quake, he tries to urge her forward, but she refuses to move. 

“Dany. We have to go.” 

A rasping sob tears her lips apart, making her gasp and hold and hand to her heaving stomach. “No! My Son!” Her face is contorted with emotion, and when Jon searches her face; he finds not only fear and sadness but anger too; white hot and molten. “What are they doing to you!” She moans, eyes fixed on Drogon. 

“Dany.” Jon takes her shoulders in his hands and tries to force her to look at him. “I don’t know what’s happening. But we have to leave right now. Please.” 

“No!” She snaps, and finally her eyes meet his. They’re furious- they’re pure murder. “Don’t you see! They’ve taken him!” Jon mutely shakes his head, lips falling open. “Your brother!” She spits. “Look at his eyes!” And then Jon does. And then Jon sees. 

His heart sinks…

“I knew they would try take it away from me.” She sobs; more than angry, more than desperate. “I should have had them all executed at Winterfell. They’re going to pay for what they’ve done!” 

“Dany”, Jon tries to put himself between her and the awful view of the carnage her son is reeking. “I’m sorry.” And he is, truly. “But if you’re going to survive, we need to escape now. We can go somewhere. Just us. We’ll build a new life.”

“What!” His words are finally sinking in, and she stares at him like she’s doesn’t even know him. “You want to let them win? After all I’ve suffered and strived for, you would ask me to give it up so easily?” Her eyes narrow in realization. “Are you trying to protect them? Look at what they’re doing!” He does look. She’s right; it’s terrible. But this is nothing compared to the horror he’d witnessed just weeks ago, at her own hands. 

“I will destroy them. I will rescue my son, and I will take back what is mine!” 

“Dany, please.” He’s begging now. “Please. Let it go. Come with me.” 

Her eyes are burning embers. They scald when she, unflinchingly looks him directly in the eyes. “You would choose them over me?”

“They’re my family…”  


“So am I.” Voice growing slightly more tender, she reaches up to place a hand on his cheek, the other resting on his shoulder. “You told me you loved me. You pledged yourself to me.” She looks deeply into his eyes, her own wide and vulnerable, and whispers; “You said I was your queen.” 

Crying now, Jon cups her face and draws her to himself, feels the heat of her body, that dragon fire deep in her veins. He chokes out a sob. “You are my queen… Now. And always.” Their lips find each other. They kiss. 

And then the dagger drives deep into her heart. 

She gasps. Her wet lips- wet with his kiss- pull back and she stares at him. Shock. Betrayal. Pain… Tears spilling over, Daenerys’ lips move. She wants to tell him something. But she never gets the chance. She collapses in his arms, and sobbing, he lowers her gently to the ground. 

Suddenly, there’s a yell from up on the platform. Jon does not look up. He cannot tear his eyes away from her face, from that tiny trickle of blood down her chin, the only evidence that she’s anything is wrong. She could just be peacefully gazing at the sky. A sob lodges in his throat. 

There’s the sound of running. Someone is coming. Then there’s another cry, and two sets of feet come thudding through the sand. 

Sweat on his brow, blood and ash on his skin, smoke in his lunges, Grey Worm bares down on Jon Snow. He raises his sword; a rod of vengeance in his hand. Arya is hot on his heels, racing as quickly as her feet can carry her, flying across the sand. 

He reaches Jon just as he’s closing Queen Daenerys’ eyes for the last time. Not even looking up, not flinching, Jon only stares blankly at the girl in his arms. Grey Worm raises his sword. He makes to stab Jon through the back, straight into his heart. Just as Jon Snow had done to his queen. But someone crashes into him from behind at the last second. Arya’s sword runs him through from the side, passing easily through his flesh and out the other side. 

The man gurgles. Wavering uncertainly for a moment, Grey Worm then topples over and collapses face first in the dirt. Never to move again. 

Gasping for breath, Arya stands up straight and turns to Jon. With a start, she sees that Grey Worm’s sword has cut a long gash in Jon’s side. She gasps, reaches out towards him; but he doesn’t even seem to have noticed. 

Eyes trained on Dany’s face, he holds her until he can no longer stay upright. Then, he slides slowly to the ground beside her, lying on his side facing her broken body. In the ash, in the dirt, their blood mingles; the blood of the last two dragons. He clings to her hand; even when silence has fallen, and Drogon has gone still, wrapped in his trance, unseeing, unknowing. Jon does not wonder what will happen when the dragon wakes and finds that his mother is dead. He can only think about the look on her face as the life drained from her eyes; about his dagger in her chest. He had called her “my Queen”, and then he’d murdered her…

Arya is kneeling beside Jon when Sansa and Tyrion arrive. There is blood everywhere; Targaryen and Stark blood spilled and turning the sand to mud beneath their boots. Catching sight of her men, who are coming closer, wheeling a blank-eyed Bran between them, Sansa calls out in an authoritative voice. “Come quickly! Take him to a Maester immediately.” They rush over, and in no time, have gathered him up and are beginning to carry him away, back towards the castle. But even with his life draining away, he still can’t let go of Daenerys. He grips her hand, until finally, they have to pry his hand from her dead fingers. 

Sansa sees his face as they pass, the look in his eyes. Honestly, she didn’t think he’d had it in him. Maybe he didn’t. Because right now, his eyes look as empty as Bran’s. 

Arya leaves with them. And then, its just the Lady of Winterfell and the Imp of House Lannister, standing alone in the empty Dragonpit. Still holding hands, the pair draws closer, standing over the fallen queen. 

Before, Sansa had hoped she would be there to see Cersei executed. She had been disappointed when she’d heard what Daenerys had done; she’d wanted to see her greatest enemy fall. But perhaps Cersei wasn’t her greatest foe, after all. Perhaps it was always going to be her, against the Queen of Dragons. 

For a while, they just stand there, starring at her cooling body. But soon, Tyrion turns away. He can’t bare to look any longer. He’d truly cared for her. And even Sansa feels no malice looking upon the young woman’s face, so vulnerable and childlike in death. She’s so terribly beautiful. With her delicate features and porcelain skin. Her full lips, usually a lovely, rosy shade of pink; now stained dark with her own blood. Sansa finds herself almost wanting to reach down and wipe away the tails of crimson down her cheek and chin, marring the image of her ethereal beauty in this moment. She can see why people loved her, why they believed in and followed her. She was a queen, in every sense of the word, even until the end. 

“Valar Morghulis.” Wasn’t that the saying? “All men must die.” And even queens fall. She’d strived to break the wheel, to free the people; a noble dream. But she had no sense of what would be left once it was destroyed, what would be left in its wake. She hadn’t wanted to build a new world, only to tear down the old one. But to keep the balance, the wheel must be disassembled slowly, taken apart piece by piece; until one day the people wake up and don’t even realize that they’re already living in a new world. 

That had been Daenerys Targaryen’s mistake. Cersei’s mistake was to cling to the wheel, fighting tooth and claw to stay on top. The downfall, of two queens so recently killed, had been mistakes like these. Mistakes Sansa does not intend to duplicate. 

“I’m a slow learner, I know.” She’d once said. “But I learn.” She is not Cersei; manipulative and seductive and power-hungry. She is not Daenerys; powerful and righteous and inspiring. But there is one thing Sansa is. She is smart. She learned from the best; outlived the best. Now, it is time for Sansa’s turn at the top of the wheel. 

Just a few spokes more, and then it begins…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are enjoying it. Thanks so much for reading. More excitement to come! 
> 
> Hopefully you are beginning to get a sense of where things are headed...


	4. The Best of Them

“What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags?” His small, soft-leathered boots pace across the stone, still bloodstained- though they tried their very best to scrub it clean- and charred by fire. She keeps her eyes low, fixed on them as he moves. Pacing softly, but with much purpose, Tyrion takes his time gazing around at the assembled Lords and Ladies. Only when he comes to a stop before her, does her gaze flicker up.

But his eyes aren’t fixed on hers. They are on Bran. “Stories… There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it.” Tyrion again searches the faces of the new Counsel. He receives a smile and an encouraging nod when he finds Samwell Tarly’s gaze. He does not meet Yara Greyjoy’s gaze. 

“And who has a better story”, he pauses, and group holds its breath, “than Bran the Broken?” 

“You remember what you’re going to say today?” Sansa had asked Bran that morning, when they were alone in his chambers. The servants had just finished dressing and helping him into his chair. He had starred back though eyes that had nothing behind them. All throughout everything, he has been silent and obedient, doing exactly as she’d asked of him. Sansa couldn’t say it didn’t make her nervous. 

“I remember everything.” And though neither his inflection, nor his expression had changed, it had sent a shiver down her spine. 

Arya and Sansa both turn their heads towards Bran in confusion, then share an uncertain look. But Tyrion does not break eye contact with their brother. “The boy who fell from a high tower and lived.” Tyrion continues. “He knew he’d never walk again, so he learned to fly. He crossed beyond the wall. A crippled boy became The Three-eyed Raven.” 

Now, Tyrion looks to the others. All sit in stunned silence, listening with brows creased and mouths open, as realization begins to dawn. “He is our memory. The keeper of all our stories. Wars, weddings, births, deaths, massacres, famines; our triumphs”, he shakes his head then, the weight of the events of the past days and week heavy upon his shoulders and upon his heart, “our defeats. Our past.” And though his face is solemn, no man has ever looked more convicted of anything. “Who better to lead us into the future?” 

They hadn’t bothered rehearsing it. Sansa had all the confidence in the world in Tyrion’s persuasive speaking abilities. But she had thought hard about how she- and Arya- should react. Now, she purses her lips and glances at Bran. 

“Bran has no interest in ruling. And he can’t father children.” It’s a harsh statement, but he doesn’t react. Things like that don’t seem to matter to him anymore.  
“Good.” Beard long and unkept, eye deep and weary, a fond expression creeps onto Tyrion’s face as he gazes up at her. “Sons of Kings can be cruel and stupid; as you well know.” She allows herself a small smile. “His will never torment us.” 

Very few Targaryen soldiers survived the trial and attempted execution. But those that did and are uninjured enough to stand, stand in rows along the sides of the dais; once again, in the Dragonpit where their brothers lost their lives. Tyrion glances to them, then to Yara Greyjoy. “That is part of the wheel Daenerys wanted to break.” 

Yara doesn’t respond, but something in her face softens the slightest bit, and she lowers her gaze. Then, Tyrion turns to face the entire group, raising his voice a little. “From now on, rulers will not be born. They will be chosen on this spot by the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, to serve the realm.” Sansa waits for someone to protest; but no one does. 

Drawing near to her brother again, Tyrion clasps his bound hands before him, and looks Bran right in the eye. “I know you don’t want it. I know you don’t care about power. But I ask you now; if we choose you, will you wear the crown? Will you lead the Seven Kingdoms to the best of your abilities, from this day, until your last day?”

The world seems to hold its breath then, though Sansa knows how he’ll respond. Bran, who’d had his eyes downcast, lost in thoughtful contemplation, finally looks up. She finds it strange when she sees the ghost of a smile there. “Why do you think I came all this way?” 

That wasn’t the response she’d anticipated, and it makes her uncomfortable. It’s the same words she’d used when she reunited with Tyrion in his cell. And it makes it seem as though that he’s known all along, that this has been the plan from the beginning; though, in reality, she hadn’t told him this part of her plan until the day before. But this just serves as a reminder of what unknown forces she’s dealing with. And though she’s probably just being paranoid, and she tries to calm her mind, Sansa can’t quite quiet the pounding heart in her ears. 

“To Brandon of House Stark”, Tyrion says, giving a small smile, “I say I.” Silence. Holding her breath, Sansa waits for a response. This is the part she had been most worried about. What if they dismissed him outright? What then? But then, from the corner of her eye, she sees Sam lean forward in his seat. 

“I.” He smiles and nods; and Tyrion inclines his head in thanks. 

Then, raising his chin, Uncle Edmure says, “I”. 

And with a conviction that both warms and excites Sansa, around the circle each of the Lords intone the same. “I.” Sweet Cousin Robyn seems like he could care less, but shrugging, agrees. Gendry Baratheon- someone who could have put an end to this entire affair- nods and votes yea when his turn comes. Even Yara Greyjoy, who supported Daenerys until the last, doesn’t hesitate. 

“I’m not sure I get a vote, but,” Sir Davos interjects, “I.” 

Finally, it comes down to Sansa. Twisting her hands in her lap, she keeps her eyes downcast, considering. Then she turns to Bran. “I love you, Little Brother. You’ll make a good king.” In response, he inclines his head. Then Sansa faces the assembly again, and nods. “I.” 

Still in his chains, a prisoner for betraying his queen by trying successfully trying to convince Jon to kill Daenerys- he’d insisted on taking the blame and leaving Sansa and Arya out of it-, Tyrion squares his shoulders. She can’t help grinning at his power. Even as their prisoner, he could manipulate them all. Noble face shining, Tyrion raises his voice. “All hail Bran the Broken: First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.”

And then the entire company is rising to its feet, lifting their voices and echoing the words that will seal their fates; the words that sound only as victory in Sansa’s ears. “All hail Bran the Broken!” 

Tyrion bows, steps back, preparing to return to imprisonment. But the new King’s voice halts him. “Lord Tyrion. You will be my Hand.” Confusion crosses Tyrion’s face, then dismissal. 

“No. No, Your Grace. I don’t want it.” 

“And I don’t want to be King.”

“I don’t deserve it.” And then it returns; a guilt Sansa knows isn’t an act. “I thought I was wise, but I wasn’t. I thought I knew what was right, but I didn’t. Choose Sir Davos. Choose anyone else.”

“I choose you.” Bran’s tone makes it clear he’s already made up his mind. “You’ve made many terrible mistakes. You deserve justice, and now you’ll spend your years by my side, fixing them.” Then surprisingly, he turns to his sister. 

“Sansa, I cannot make you; you’ve done nothing wrong, but I’m going to need more than just Tyrion if I’m going to bring restoration to Westeros. You’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have. I ask you to be my other Hand.” Sansa stares at him, slack jawed. 

“No king has ever had two Hands.” One of the Lords at the other end of the pavilion suddenly objects. 

The faintest expression plays across Bran’s features. “Every king has two hands”, he counters. “Every king has four limbs. I will need two extras to make up for the ones I am missing.” He gives a pointed look at his legs, and a few of the others titter.

Sansa hides her smile behind pursed lips. When Bran’s gaze falls on her again, she redoubles her efforts to appear uncertain. “What about the North?”

“I won’t ask you to stay here forever. And Arya and Sir Brienne will take good care of it while you are away.” Her brother’s tone drops. “I promise, the sacrifices they made in the war against the Dead will not be forgotten. We will take care of them from here.” 

After another long moment of silence, Sansa solemnly nods. “I will be your Hand.” Then her eyes meet Tyrion’s from across the space, and she can’t help the subtly satisfied smile that slithers across her lips. 

“And what about Jon Snow?” Yara Greyjoy suddenly asks. It seems she still hasn’t forgiven him for what he’d done. 

Bran considers a moment. “Jon Snow committed a crime. He murdered the queen who he’d pledged himself to, but only after he allowed her to slaughter thousands of innocents. What he did was wrong; but it was also necessary.” Squaring his jaw, he looks to Tyrion and Sansa. “What do my Hands say?” 

Tyrion scratches his neck, stretching in relief now that the shackles have been removed. “He should receive some sort of punishment. But it should be something in which he can do good and not-.” 

But Sansa cuts him off. There’s no remorse, no tears, when she says it. “We should send him to the Wall.” 

… 

The room is dark, dank, and small; one of the few of the Maester’s chambers left below the Keep untouched by dragon fire. He lies on a bed in the corner, too small for his bulky frame. He doesn’t look up when she enters, only stares blankly at the wall, his back to her, his wounded side exposed. 

She keeps very quiet as she crosses the room, so as not to startle him. Stopping beside the cot, she places a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. “Jon”, she whispers. For long moments he doesn’t move, but then Sansa sees his eyes shift, and slowly, he turns over onto his back to look up at her. His black hair, sweaty and disheveled, plasters his brow and neck, and fans out on the pillow around him. His eyes; haunted and already pricked with tears. 

Sansa’s heart skinks. He is worse than she’d expected. But at least the Maester had assured her his wound is healing normally. Arya, Sam, Davos, even Tyrion have all been to visit him here, but this is the first time Sansa has forced herself to come down here, to face him. 

“How are you feeling?” She asks, still keeping her voice gentle, light. 

“I killed her, Sansa. I killed her.” 

Sansa feels her heart squeezing, aching in her chest. But she retains her steeled mask. “Yes. You did.” 

Cracked and rough, his voice grates with disuse. “I should have died too. Grey Worm deserved that revenge.” 

Biting her lip, Sansa stares down at him. She knows the lengths pain and guilt can drive a man. She wants to reprimand him for suggesting such a thing, but she just squeezes his shoulder and shakes her head. “You will move on from this, over time.”

“Over time?” Now the first expression he’s shown since she arrived, besides anguish, crosses his face. Confusion. “I’m not going to executed?”

“No, Jon.” And she can’t help a few tears from welling in her eyes. “You did the right thing.” She says, comforting, reassuring. Jon begins to shake his head, to disagree; but Sansa stops him, allowing her fingers to briefly press against his cheek. “It wasn’t the easy thing, but it was the right thing.” 

Taking a step back, composing herself, she continues. “They’re sending you to the wall.” Jon’s brow creases in confusion. His lips move to form words, but his sister presses on before he can. “As punishment, you’ll take the black and serve a life’s sentence protecting the living, just as you always have. 

Pressing his lips together, Jon blinks several times, then lowers his eyes; resigned. “Of course.” 

“There was nothing else to be done. We- Arya and I wanted you to come back to rule at Winterfell, but they insisted justice be served. It was the only way to keep you alive and safe.” And its true. This is the best way, for all of them. 

“I understand.” 

No. No, you don’t. But you will. Soon…

“Tyrion and I will be staying here to help begin the process of rebuilding. Arya and Brienne will take care of Winterfell while I’m away.”

Eyes still lowered, fixed on the wall opposite the cot, Jon nods, then swallows. He looks so defeated. It pains her to see him like this; the man who rose from the dead and united Northerners and Wildlings, who convinced the Queen of Dragons to fight an army of the dead, and then won. Now utterly unrecognizable. She can’t bring herself to leave him like this. 

“It will be alright, Jon. You’ll see. Things are finally going to be set right.” But he doesn’t respond. It’s almost as if he doesn’t hear her. Just the same as always; still not listening. 

Aching with a weariness down deep in her bones, Sansa sighs. She’s finished. Resigned. Turning to go, she makes it almost to the door before glancing over her shoulder. She gazes down at his prostrate body with ice in her gaze, now detached, finally removed. “Oh, by the way,” her words come out flat. “Bran is going to be King.”

“Wha-. I-.” A million expressions flash in his eyes as he snaps his head in her direction. 

“You didn’t want it. Remember? Someone had to do it.”

Then she’s swinging the door open, and not looking back. 

It could have been so easy. If only he’d heeded the things she’d been insisting on from the very beginning! He never would have even met Daenerys and then never would have had to watch her burn a whole city, and then kill her with his own hands. He could be King right now, ruling from the North, taking care of his people. But he never listened; not now, and not ever. It had been her plan to guide Jon to the throne and work through him, but now she sees that would never have worked. She needed someone less emotional, more pliable. Better that Jon goes far away, safe and removed from all this, to heal in peace. Nothing, even all this, could change the way he is. 

Sansa’s right; he never wanted it. But there’s someone who does. 

Outside, in the hall, Arya waits. As Sansa coolly exits the chamber, Arya falls into step beside her sister. Sansa can see the distress in her sister’s eyes, even if she doesn’t want to. 

“Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

Sighing, Sansa presses a hand briefly to her temple. “Yes. But he’ll work past it, over time. Being back in the North, in a familiar place, will help him.”

“He’ll never be the same though.” Arya’s dark eyes catch hers and hold them. 

Sansa swallows, and her eyes fall to the stones at her feet. “I don’t think any of us will.”

A few moments of silence pass. The only sound is the synchronized pounding of their boots on the floors of the passages of what’s left of the Red Keep. They come across great holes in the walls, huge, gaping empty spaces where whole rooms should have been. Several times, they have to slow to carefully avoid scattered plies of rubble. 

“And what about Jaime Lannister?” Sansa asks.

“He’s somewhere safe.”

“Good.” Cocking a brow, she eyes her sister. “Sure he’s not going to give you too much trouble. 

Arya only smirks. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about the Kingslayer. I’ve handled a lot worse.” 

“You’ll be taking him back to Winterfell with you. I don’t think I need to remind you; no one must find out that he’s there.”

“You don’t.”

Of course, she’s being over cautious. She trusts Arya more than almost anyone, and she knows more about stealth and discretion than anyone else Sansa knows. But it is a risky move; keeping the Kingslayer at their home. If anyone- even other Houses in the North- found out the Starks were harboring a fugitive and a traitor- not to mention a Lannister- inside their walls, it could put them all in jeopardy.

“You’ll probably have to give him a fake name and alter his appearance. Make him grow his hair and beard out long.” She chuckles at the idea. “Perhaps even put some dye in his hair, to cover that infamous Lannister gold. And, of course, you’ll need to get him a new hand. I-.”

Arya suddenly stops her in the antechamber outside the Throne Room, slipping into her path and resting a hand on her arm. Her brow, creased with concern, is low over her dark eyes. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright here alone? I don’t quite feel right leaving you here. And with Jon and Bran gone too, it’s going to feel strange at home without you.”

It touches Sana, more than she lets on. Just the thought of being so far away from Arya and from home shoots a pang of loneliness deep inside her heart. Wrapping her hand around Arya’s against her shoulder, Sansa puts on a brave face. “I’ll be alright. I have work to do here.” So much work! “And I won’t be alone. Bran’s here and-.”

“Tyrion…”

“Yes.” Sansa is about to continue, when she realizes Arya isn’t looking at her, but at something over her shoulder. Someone actually… 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Tyrion stands there in his fine, new clothes; clothes befitting a Hand of the King. He’d just come strolling round the corner but stopped when he saw the sisters having a moment. 

“No.” Arya says dismissively- a little too dismissively. “I was just about to head down to the docks anyway. We’ll need to set sail before noon if we’re ever going to make it to Winterfell before spring is here.” There’s a certain frigidity to her voice that Sansa can’t help but notice. It’s not as though her sister dislikes Tyrion; but she doesn’t know him or trust him, and Sansa’s not sure she entirely approves of their relationship. But she hasn’t threatened to kill him yet- that she knows of- so Sansa isn’t too concerned. 

Tyrion gives a slight bow. Sansa can tell he’s still a bit intimidated by and unsure about her sister too; though he does honestly seem to like her. “Farewell Arya. I trust you’ll look after my brother.” 

The tiniest of smirks twisting her lips, Arya cocks a brow at him. “I’ll try to keep him from getting himself killed.” She glances at Sansa and her smirk grows. “Though I can’t say the same for Brienne.” 

Tyrion chuckles at that. “Please, send her my apologies in advance.” 

She nods, then her expression turns serious. “Take care of my sister.” And it’s a strange thing; because compared to Arya’s standards he can’t take care of anybody. Perhaps she does trust him more than Sansa thought.

“I’ll do my best.” They exchange nods, then Arya wraps Sansa in a quick, tight embrace; then turns and hurries down the corridor, not looking back. Then it’s just the two of them, once again. 

He looks good in all black, hair combed and beard trimmed neatly. It brings a slight heat to her cheeks as she remembers running her fingers through the course hairs as they kissed by the window outside her room for far too long last night, before he bid her goodnight. She’s also dressed in black; but its not because they’re in mourning. Quite the opposite actually. 

Tyrion is smiling up at her, admiring her appearance as much as she is his. Heart beating a bit faster, she’s not quick enough to stop the grin he’s coaxing out of her. He glances to the double doors beside them, the ones that lead into the Throne Room. “Shall we?” And when he holds out his hand, she takes it and squeezes it tight. 

…

They stand like back knights, on either side of the Iron Throne. And though neither has much skill with a sword, they guard their King’s seat of power, as is their sworn duty. 

Sansa remembers a time, so very long ago, when last they both stood in this very room. But then, they did not stand upon the dais, an arms-length from the Iron Throne itself. Then, they were prisoners, outcasts. Then, they were strangers; forced into marriage, forced to be allies. Now, they are two of the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms; second only to the King. How far they’ve come. How far they have yet to go…

Dressed in his own fine regalia, a softer black than either Tyrion’s or Sansa’s, Bran the Broken moves with stately grace down the center aisle. The people of the Court and the Noble Houses- what little of them are left- bow as he passes. His chair has been refined, so it makes little noise as it is pushed up to the steps and the attendants lift him from his wooden chair to a seat made of blades and dragon fire.

A Stark on the throne, and a Stark at his right hand; who would have thought? 

Bran nods to the new Grand Maester, Samwell Tarly, who mounts the stairs holding a velvet pillow in one hand. Moving to Tyrion first, then to Sansa, the Maester takes a steel pin from the pillow and pins it to their chests. Chin raised, Sansa wears it with pride. The weight of the ring of Valyrian steel and matching hand on her breast will serve as a reminder of all its cost, and all she’d endured to get here. 

Wasn’t there some old song about hands of gold… 

An attendant brings another pillow; this one, heavy with a crown. The Maester places it reverently upon the King’s dark hair, then turns to face the assembled crowd.   
“All hail Brandon of House Stark; First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign.”   
“Long may he reign!” As Sansa joins in, she can’t help but grin secretly. Tyrion catches her eye from the other side of the throne. His are shining. His smile is wide. And for the first time since she’d first returned to home to Winterfell, she smiles just as broadly. 

May he reign…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not. There's still more to come. Lest you think I will follow the dark path of D&D, let me ease your mind. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I'm honestly really enjoying this one. I always appreciate your lovely comments, so please let me know what you think. 
> 
> I'm currently in the middle of two other longer fics; both Sansa/Tyrion and alternate versions of events from the ones in the show. If you're liking this one, consider checking out "A Coat Of Gold" and "To Trust a Clever Man".

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying Sansa and Tyrion are my favorite characters. I support anything my queen chooses to do! I am not painting these characters as villains, but I find it interesting any enjoyable exploring them in villainous roles. And I wanted to create a reason behind the events at the end of season 8, a plan created by Sansa. Also I would like to say that I do not hate Dany or Jon, or condone anything the horrible writing did to them in the end. 
> 
> That being said, I'm very excited to start this project. I hope you enjoy it. I have no idea how long it will be, probably 4 of 5 chapters. I'd be delighted to have you along for the ride! Please let me know what you think!


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